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ficus and an occasional poinciana swelling up above the shingled roofs in the back.
    There was one such tree on the corner of the next block, and three men were gathered in its shade.
    The two standing were young, in their late teens, and their heads turned my way as I rolled up and then snapped the opposite way as if my arrival might automatically bring a squad car from the other direction. The third was sitting in a metal folding chair, his legs splayed out, one hand dangling down, the other folded in the vicinity of his crotch.
    He faced the street, and although there were three or four other bent and rusted chairs empty around him, the other two remained standing, their hands in their pockets, their backs turned to the street and to me. As I passed, the sitting man checked me out using the torsos of his boys as bad cover for his surveillance. It was a scene being played out on thousands of corners all over the country, I thought. At Third and Indiana in Philly, at the Triangle in Miami. But unlike the open markets of the 1980s, when the sellers would put their faces in any car window that rolled down the street, the new breed were far more careful. They didn’t sell to strangers, at least not on the first pass.
    I drifted through the intersection and in the rearview all three had turned to watch me. Farther down the block I spotted the set of numbers I was searching for and pulled into the driveway behind a new four-door sedan, deep green and freshly waxed. My knock on the door brought a response from deep in the house.
    “Just a second, baby.”
    The small porch was barely covered by the overhang. A pair of women’s shoes was lined carefully on a rough mat. There was a white plastic chair and matching cocktail table with a cheap Japanese fan folded and resting on the yellowed top.
    The woman was halfway into another sentence when she opened the door and looked up into my face, stared for a fleeting second, and then blushed.
    “Oh. Excuse me. I was…Well, you must be Mr. Freeman. Correct?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Max Freeman,” I said, offering my hand.
    “Please come in Mr. Freeman. I’m Mary Greenwood. Mr. Manchester told me you would be coming by,” she said, losing the flush quickly and becoming formal.
    She was a stout woman. The light brown skin of her face was smooth and unblemished. She could have been thirty or fifty. She led the way through a darkened living room crowded with heavy upholstered chairs, an ancient standup piano and lamps with tasseled shades. The walls were crowded with shelves of photos and ceramic knickknacks with religious themes. An oil painting of Jesus dominated one wall. A portrait of Martin Luther King, Jr., another.
    “This was my mommas house,” she said, moving into the small kitchen. “Shared it with my father for his last years and refused to move out after he passed.”
    She moved to the counter and started working at an old ceramic coffeepot, white with a blue cornflower pattern.
    “Coffee?” she said, taking the lid off the stemmed metal basket and spooning a dark blend out of a glass container.
    “Thank you,” I said. “The paperwork Mr. Manchester had said your mother was eighty-four?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And she passed away sleeping in her bed, what, eight years after her husbands death?”
    She was silent. She’d heard the rationalizations from the medical examiner, the prosecutor’s office, the police investigators. Too many times from too many officials.
    “Since you said yes to the coffee, Mr. Freeman, let’s us go on out back and I will tell you about my momma and why I do not believe the Lord called her this way.”
    “A pleasure, ma’am,” I said.
    She brought the coffee out onto a back porch, a slab of concrete set up with the same plastic furniture as the front. The backyard was shaded by the row of trees. A ragged ficus hedge gave the lawn a small privacy. The fanned-out poinciana, its leaf pattern as intricate as a doily, spread out over